


In-Between

by amoama



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6461374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/pseuds/amoama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey gets beaten up in prison and is moved to hospital where he sees Ian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In-Between

The lights are too fucking bright but it feels like his eyes have been closed forever so he tries again to make them open. Waking up didn’t used to feel so wretched. Then he realises, fuck, he’s in fucking hospital. Wrist cuffed to the bed, everything fucking beeping and the smell of disinfectant and bodily disintegration. Welcome back to the world then. He remembers being jumped out of nowhere, fighting back with a shard of smashed mirror. Surely some of those other fucks must be in here too, if they didn’t already bleed out that is. 

He feels heavy, something on his chest is burning, and he never wants to move again. Blinking is about all he’s up for. Maybe a drink. His throat is full of sand. 

“Water,” he croaks. No one responds. Finally he notices his left hand is wrapped around some sort of call button. He squeezes, which is fucking exhausting. Some nurse comes over and he makes the effort to repeat himself, “water.” Then remembers to add, “please.” 

She holds a glass to his lips. His throat doesn’t really do well at swallowing, which, fuck that. He tries again, succeeds a bit and then a bit more. “Fuck, thank you,” he rasps.

“Sure,” she says. She hits some buttons on the machine next to him. “We’re waiting on results for you,” she tells him, “could be a while. You’re not exactly the priority.” 

He’d shrug, because it’s not like he minds being out of fucking prison longer, but he doesn’t have that kind of energy. He feels woozy and decides to pass out for a while longer. 

*

The lights are too fucking bright so he shuts his eyes again. Someone’s being rushed in beside him. There’s a lot of authoritative shouting going on. One voice infiltrates his morphine haze. He knows that voice better than his own. Ian at his competent best. He hasn’t sounded like that for ages. Not since... Mickey opens his eyes again. Turns his head to the left to see him. There he is. Hair first, of course, always the most distinctive thing, then eyes, skin, body. Same way he always takes Ian in. Hair, eyes, skin, body, all so fucking perfect. Ian’s focused on the task in front of him, moving some doped up deadbeat onto the bed. Ian’s at the foot of the bed. He looks smart, he looks great. Mickey smiles. Ian. 

“Ian,” he tries, “Gallagher,” his voice is a distant thing. His hand is held out already when Ian turns to him, shock rippling over his face. 

“Mick? Christ,” he wipes his hand over his face, suddenly so confused again. Mickey knows that look too, all too fucking well. He hates it. Did he do that? Ian looks away, back to whomever the fuck he’s with. Its ages until he finishes up with the deadbeat and his eyes slope back to Mickey. 

“I’ll come back, Mick, alright,” Ian says. Then he flees the scene. 

*

The lights are dimmed when Ian gets back. Who the fuck knows how much later. Mickey’s given up counting time. 8 years after all. He can’t live with that waiting. He just exists. Drugs make it easier of course. Life on pause. Blink. Ian’s back. It’s a philosophy to make many shamans jealous. He hears the curtain being drawn around them and the world falls away. His eyes are open now.

He aches everywhere, his chest is still burning, but he loves the pain it causes when Ian climbs onto the bed and fits himself in beside him. He leans his head on the arm Mickey has stretched out. Lays a careful hand around Mickey’s waist. 

He doesn’t ask what happened. Ian knows. Crushed bones speak for themselves. They stare at each other for a while. Affirming something. Whatever it is between them, it’s still there. Mickey can tell Ian is confused about it, but it’s still there, coming back to the fore, suffusing Ian’s face. Love fucked them good, that’s all Mickey knows. 

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian says, “you have to be more careful.”

“Yeah, sure.” It comes out gruff and Ian winces in response. His hand comes up, smoothes over Mickey’s face, touching his cheeks, lips, eyes, running through his hair, down his neck, so, so gentle. Something he’d only ever let Ian get away with. 

“You look like shit,” Ian says, and Mickey smiles at that, because it’s always been true and Ian has yet to sound like he minds. 

“Kiss me,” Mickey says, asking for it, for once. Ian rolls his eyes, then looks like he’s about to cry, then kisses him. It hurts. It’s a quiet pressing, one sided almost, because Mickey can barely move, but its fucking everything he’s been missing. 

When Ian draws back Mickey smiles at him again, can’t stop himself, acknowledging all the fucking soppy things they’re not going to bother saying. He needs to know something much more important.

“How are you?” He asks. He holds his breath, this is the worst question, he knows, but, “I need to know,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Ian says, settling back in against Mickey’s side, not looking at him. “I’m taking the meds.”

Fuck. Thank fuck. “And?” he presses.

“And they fucking numb me out. My range of feelings is pretty fucking tiny these days. I’m so fucking mild.” 

“A mild Gallagher?” 

“Yeah, fuck, something like that. But I think maybe the baseline is mild-happy now, not mild-despairing, so that’s something.” The words rush out of Ian, murmured against Mickey’s neck, and Mickey tightens his grip on Ian just a bit. He can’t handle Ian when he’s so fucking precious like this. He gives himself a minute. 

“Ian?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you.” Whispered, because it’s not the kind of thing he knows how to say. 

“Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss you.” Why does it sound like such a guilty confession coming from Ian? Still, Mickey’ll fucking take it. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. Too much for words. So fucking much. 

They kiss some more. Just gentle touches, nothing like what they’ve done before. Ian moves with languid patience. Nothing like his frenetic style from before. 

“You’re a medic?” Mickey asks after a while, fiddling with the collar of the uniform.

“An EMT, yeah.” 

“You seem like you grew up.” Mickey points out grimly. Fuck this kid who isn’t a fucking kid anymore. “Fuck, fuck.” This is what he’s missing. 

“Yeah.” 

“You’re doing great, aren’t you?” He gathers Ian back up against him, in tight, hard as he can. He loves it, he wants to feel it, even if it leaves him fucking paralysed. 

“I’m doing alright, Mick, it’s fucking hard though.” Ian’s voice is quiet. Mickey’s heart turns over.

“Sam wasn’t worth this, Mick, nothing is,” Ian says, “You have to stop. I can’t be thinking of you hurting. I don’t want to see you back here.” Which, fuck, because Mickey would take a thousand beatings to be back here with Ian beside him, the only way they can be together. 

But he gets what Ian’s saying, for once. He’s saying it’s time for Mickey to grow up to, and looking at Ian now, older like he is, Mickey does get it. He doesn’t want to be the same 8 years from now, not if Ian’s moving on. They both need to get their shit together if they want to have a fucking chance. 

Ian’s fingers roam over Mickey’s chest and as they dance over Mickey’s heart he experiences a fierce shooting pain that makes him cry out. 

“What the fuck,” Ian says and he draws back the hospital gown to expose Mickey’s heart. His tattoo is a green and red mess of pussy infection. It burns like crazy. 

Ian laughs, “I fucking told you it was infected,” he says. 

“Fuck you, Gallagher,” Mickey grunts, pissed, “It was adding in the second fucking L that did it.”


End file.
